


a prologue of sorts

by inkwellAnomaly



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Biblical References, Canon Compliant, Character Study, End of the World, Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwellAnomaly/pseuds/inkwellAnomaly
Summary: In which Behemo saves the world, but not himself.





	a prologue of sorts

The light of the computer screen wanes, but the servers determinedly continue to flicker. Their beeps accompany the lights - a steady beat, a lullaby for humanity. They pulsate with a measured precision. Lights and sounds measuring the shape of the world, stringing its words together in a song that resounds lu li la, lu li la.

Behemo looks at the webcam image on his screen: a gigantic white rocket, floating through space. The process was a success - the avatars had been brought into reality, programs made flesh, now dwelling among us. He, Barisol, only child of the earth, was no longer alone.

There is more work to be done, but that would be left to his successor. Behemo drums his trembling fingers on the desk, waiting for the file to upload. His traumas like mud and memories like flowers, all melting and turning and swirling within him - that would all be inherited by his mirror image.

He quietly laughs at the bitter irony: he is the Truth, Savior Son, Master of the Heavenly Yard, and yet he cannot save himself.

The file finishes uploading just as the fatigue of the radiation poisoning sets in. Behemo takes a deep breath, and opens a new document. He wonders, what sort of words would be appropriate? He has so much to say: good morning, good day, thank you, farewell. But the clock is ticking, and he has no time for such wordplay. His demise is nigh; he can almost hear the ringing bells of heaven signaling the end.

Behemo struggles to keep his eyes open as he types out his final message to the meek scientists, those who will inherit the earth. It is up to them, he tells himself. They hold the key to humanity’s salvation, and will open the door to the unknown.

The sun dawns in a prank of the twilight, and a document is sent. Two words, a binary message in a bottle, cast out to the sea of space.

_Hello, world._


End file.
